


His Diamond Eyes Were Dull as Lead

by evening_coffee



Series: Who Goes Up the Winding Web [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Guilt, M/M, Mind Control, Spiders, The Web Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), Tragic Romance, Web!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_coffee/pseuds/evening_coffee
Summary: Hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny voices speak when Martin opens his mouth, and none of them sound even remotely human. They’re pitched far too high, but with the sound of Martin’s regular voice slurring beneath them in a disjointed and unnatural tone. As a whole, they sound like a scratching record layered with ghostly distortion. The voices are speaking in unison, but at the same time they’re stumbling over each other.Jon forgets how to breathe. His relief at seeing Martin alive withers like burning grass and is replaced by blinding fear, and it only gets worse when Martin starts to move.***Jon arrives at Hilltop Road to rescue Martin, but discovers that he may be too late.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Who Goes Up the Winding Web [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203971
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	His Diamond Eyes Were Dull as Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Literally 2 days before episode 196 came out, I posted a fic about Annabelle filling Martin up with spiders. After learning that was her original plan, I HAD to write a sequel.

Jon’s pace grows faster and more frantic as he feels himself nearing Hilltop House. Every muscle in his body is tense, and every thought is draped in worry.

 _She broke the camera,_ he thinks. _She must have...so why can’t I see?_

There had been a moment of sudden clarity as he approached the house. The sky had grown dark and the air grew stagnant as the influence of the camera vanished. Normally, Jon would have waited or gone back to fetch Basira, who had surely awakened from her much needed rest.

But he couldn’t. Something was wrong.

When he tries to see Annabelle, the image is dark. It’s not gone; she’s certainly still alive, but trying to focus on her has a strange downward pull to it. When he tries to see her location, it almost looks like she’s around some kind of void. Seeing it is like static, and Jon finds he has to pull his focus away lest he be drawn down by whatever hole Annabelle is surrounded by.

But what’s even more troubling is his view of Martin.

Martin is also alive, and Jon takes some comfort in that, but the image of him is blurry. Jon can see that he’s in Hilltop House, but trying to view his emotional state is like looking at a Rorschach test through a frosted window. Martin is...scared? Maybe? But Jon isn’t sure. If he looks at the obscured knowledge from other angles, the state changes. It’s not circulating through any cycle; it’s consistent, but it’s incomprehensible.

Despite Jon’s growing sense of urgency, he stops once he sees the doorstep of Hilltop House. He’s struck with his own onslaught of emotions; the relief of arriving, the apprehension at seeing Martin again, the fear of whatever dark manifestation might lie behind that door. But, more potent than anything else, there was guilt.

He begins to walk onto the porch at a slow and uneasy pace. There’s an image in his mind that grows stronger, to a point where it starts to overtake all of his other concerns.

He is going to have to knock on the door.

Jon pictures the teenager from his childhood; his legs twisting and his eyes fixated blankly on thick pages as he pressed his hand to the door. The half breath that didn’t have a chance to form itself into a scream as repulsive legs drew him in to a room that could not be seen. The tightness in Jon’s chest as he barely grasped his own narrow escape from death, or worse, and the realization that his survival was the result of another person dying in his place.

Jon is shaking, and air refuses to leave his lungs. He clenches his hand into a fist as terror ruthlessly claws at his mind.

_Knock knock._

_“Who is it Mr. Spider?”_

_It’s The Archivist. And he’s brought you his boyfriend._

*********

We aren’t exactly sure when the “I” became “we.” We guess that’s not surprising; we’ve been “us” forever, but now that we’re in this host of flesh, it feels different. The host was a “he;” an individual, but now that we’ve become one, we must grow accustomed to our existence as a whole.

It’s working, though. Once that mound of intricate neurons had been fully coated in strands of silver, we relaxed. The stress had been overwhelming earlier, and there was such apprehension and terror when we walked into Hilltop House to meet with Annabelle. Even after she explained her plan, that seed of doubt and paranoia still lurked within our brain. We had such a strong desire to avoid serving the Mother of Puppets, but that desire seems oh so silly now.

The hooks hurt though. Their snapping and piercing into the flesh and veins of our body was truly horrific. But now they’ve become a part of us, and the webs that pull and press on our brain have helped dull the pain. Not physically; the sting is still very potent and powerful, but we’ve simply decided not to let it bother us. This is how we were meant to exist, so there’s no point in dwelling on insignificant details like physical comfort.

The blood loss had been quite uncomfortable as well, but at least that pain has subsided. We had to drink our host dry in order to fit comfortably under the skin. It’s still cramped, but sucked clean and ideal for crawling. It’s skin bulges slightly under the pressure, but that’s nothing unexpected.

We’re ready now. We’re loved and adored by every scratching itch and scuttle that we feel within this body.

We’re malleable and easy to control.

Good.

We want to do our best to stop the apocalypse as the time grows nearer. That’s why we did this in the first place, surrendering our meaningless freedom to serve a higher purpose, and to stop Jon from...

_Jon._

The name lingers in our mind. The face of The Archivist holds a special place here, and it’s not easily evicted from our thoughts. If our heart was still pumping liquid red through our host, it would surely quicken as we think of saving him.

 _Jon mustn't become the pupil. Jon mustn't give in to the Eye,_ we think. Jon is important to us, and that fact remains a constant.

 _Hypocrite,_ is our next thought, but we pacify it quickly; tugging the threads on parts of our mind to make it disappear.

There. That’s better.

We can’t even remember what we were thinking about.

Ah, right. _Jon._

The Archivist should be here shortly, and we simply cannot wait to greet him.

We want to see his face; to know that he has not succumb to the temptation of Beholding. When we conjure the image of him blissfully taking the place of Jonah Magnus, it _hurts_ us. Jon will almost certainly die, but that’s preferable to him being destroyed and consumed by a power greater than himself.

Some other thought begins to take shape as we dwell on this, but we ensnare it before it can fully form.

We want to see Jon because we love him.

But we also want to watch him squirm.

He will not like the way we look, and we’re well aware of this, but it doesn’t matter. He is just a small piece of the big picture.

As are we.

_Knock knock._

The sound is like music. The chains that bind us pull us upward and move us towards the door.

_Jon is here!_

The thought is almost like a dream. Our stomach tightens and our hands are eager to open the door and see him. To see his terror, his despair, his devotion, his love for us...

Our thoughts are becoming troublesome, but we see no need to rectify them. If it is possible to be both loved and feared, then that is exactly what we want.

*********

Suspense eats away at Jon’s nerves as he waits for his knock to be answered. His body is desperate to run, but the thought of saving Martin keeps him fixed in place.

The door opens slowly inwards, and there appears to be no one on the other side.

With unsteady steps, Jon enters the house. It seems normal at first glance, but upon closer inspection, he notices holes in the ceiling, and repulsive stains of reddish brown smeared around the corners of the living room.

A loud _slam_ rips Jon’s gaze away from the stains and back towards the entrance, where he can now see who was standing behind the door.

“Martin,” he breathes, and for a brief moment he feels as though he could fly. “Thank god.”

Jon goes in for an embrace. He longs to clutch his boyfriend tightly and apologize for their fight, but before he can reach him, Martin speaks.

And Jon’s heart stops dead in his chest.

“He̒̓l͐l͐̾̚o̐̽͝ D̒̒͐a͑̓͝r͋͋l̐͌̕i̓̕̕n͛͝͝g͐͐͑!͒͐ ̾͘

He͐͐̕l͒̿̐l͆̕o͒͌͝ A͆͋͌r̓͌͝c͒̕͝h̒͆i̽̿̾v͊͆͝i̐̔͒s͋͛t͒̽!͛̈́͘

H̓e̔̓͝l͑͑l̾͝o̽̿̚ J͒̔̓o̒̽n͝͠!̽̔̔”

Hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny voices speak when Martin opens his mouth, and none of them sound even remotely human. They’re pitched far too high, but with the sound of Martin’s regular voice slurring beneath them in a disjointed and unnatural tone. As a whole, they sound like a scratching record layered with ghostly distortion. The voices are speaking in unison, but at the same time they’re stumbling over each other.

Jon forgets how to breathe. His relief at seeing Martin alive withers like burning grass and is replaced by blinding fear, and it only gets worse when Martin starts to move. His legs lumber as though they’re shackled, and his arms appear slack and lifeless despite moving at his sides. His eyes are blank and lack any focus, but they dart all over the room as if he's seeing nothing and everything all at once. As he grows closer, Jon can see fresh wounds on his joints; thick punctures that widen as though they’re being pried open with every movement.

But despite those wounds being moved and picked at, not even a drop of blood trickles out.

“Martin,” the name that escapes Jon’s lips is an assertion, question, and desperate plea all in one. _Martin, what did she do to you?_

Jon’s head presses against the wall as he realizes he’d been backing away from Martin’s approach, and he almost completely loses his footing as the uncanny facsimile of his partner draws nearer. “You’re...where’s Martin?” Jon tries to put some aggression into the question and feign some semblance of control, but the words tumble out of his mouth as a pitiable murmur.

Martin’s lips twist upwards into an unnatural grin, and Jon notices tiny lacerations around his mouth.

W̒͠͠e͛'̓͋͝r̈́̈́e͛̚ M̾͘͠a̓̿r͠͠t̒̓̒i̿̾͊n̓͋!̔͘͠

M̈́͋͆a͛͐̾r͛͑͑t̓͋i̒̔͊n͆̐͝ h̓̈́a̔͑͝s̈́͒͆ c̔͊̓h͑̈́̓a̾̽͠n͒̈́̚g͛͐̾e̽̐͘d͛͠.͌̐͐

T̓͊o͒ c͆̈́̚h̓̐͠ä́̾n̈́͆͘g͋̚e̒͘ t̒̒̕h̓͐e͆̔͛ w͐͋͝o̐͘r̈́̒͝l̾̚d͊̓̒,͛͋͠ M̽̕͠a͋̒̐r͐t̽̚̚i̒͑n͌̐̕ s̔͠͝e͑͒͠r̾͛͌v͒̒̚e̓͆s̓͊̕ t͐̒̕h̽̈́̕e͋͐ M͋͛̒o̐͛͠t͒͆͒h̔e͊͌̓r̈́̿̓ o͆͛f̈́͒̈́ P͌̾̒ǘ̓̚p͌͛̕p̔͑͝e̽̓t͋͑͠s̿̈́̒

M̐͒̈́a̓͑r͐̾̐t̿̔͘i̒͘̚n̓͛͘ i̽̿̚s͑̓̒ n̒̔͘o͑̿ l͋͋o͛̓͝n̐̾͠g̿̒͛ë́͑̿r͐͌ f̿̈́͠r͐͊̕e̔̒̔e̓͌͊.̓̾͠ M̔̓͝a̾͌͒r̐̓̕t͐̒̈́i͐͝n̔͒͆ i̓̔͝s̽̒̓ a̒̓͝ p͌͒͝u̓̐͆p̾̓͠p͌͠͠e͆͐ẗ́̈́͝ n͋͋o͊͌͠w͝͝.͋̓͌

J̒͋͝o̿̒n̽͊͋, M͑̕͝ä́̾r͐͘ẗ́̔͝i͛͝n̽͑͝ i͌͘s̈́̐ s̓̒͒ö́͝ h͋͝a͊͊p̾̕͘p̈́͝y̓̿͛ y͋̾͒o͋͊̽u̓̈́̚'̈́͌r͑̕̕e̚̚͠ h͌̕e͑̐̔r͋̓͠ë́̈́͠!̓̔

Trying to decode the string of overlapping answers makes Jon’s head ache. He looks up at Martin, who now stands so close that Jon can see how bulged his veins are, and how many bloodless wounds have been carved into his body.

He watches as the gashes on Martin’s left arm open slightly under an invisible tug while the arm itself moves towards him. Jon doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s almost certain that it will hurt. Terror has paralyzed him, so he shuts his eyes and waits for it to be over.

A gentle caress strokes his cheek and tucks his hair behind his ear. The movement is deliberate and affectionate. Jon may have even considered comforting if he didn’t feel how unnaturally cold Martin’s skin was.

Regardless, Jon opens his eyes and looks up at Martin’s face. Martin’s grin has disappeared. His expression is completely blank and devoid of emotion, but his hand moves down to gently cup Jon’s face. His thumb traces Jon’s cheekbone softly. Lovingly.

“Martin,” Jon whispers the name again and looks directly into his boyfriend’s eyes. “Martin...are you still in there?”

The hand wraps around Jon’s neck.

Ẃ̷̠̘̹̱̪̞͑͛̂̽̃Ę̶̯͎̗͇̈́ ̴̢͓̘͓̐̐̾Ḑ̸͍̬͕̜͂̊̂̈́͗͜ͅO̸̼̟̗͇̥͑̆̿̓̂̀̚N̶̡̰̤̮̻̼'̶̬̞̠̤̮̈̔̊̈́Ṭ̴̢̖̱̂̐̓̒ ̵̖̘͖̪̱̾͗̅̒͗̈́͜͝͝K̴̥̰̹̻͎̠͑͒͆N̴̨̲͖͓̩̱̪͇̖͒̓͑̕O̷̧͚̼̰̹̲̊͗̃̃W̶̨̝̙͙̋̉ͅ

There was no overlap of different phrases, just one loud proclamation ringing from thousands of ugly voices. Jon feels every nerve ending in his body encase itself in ice as he watches Martin’s face contort back into a wide and unsettling grin. The wounds around his mouth look like they’re on the verge of ripping under the unseen pressure of the hooks.

W̵͍̙̦͐͝e̵͚̝̓̈́͠ h̸͕̻̐͘o̸̠̝͔̓͊͠p̴̼͕̘͆̔e̴̢̢͙̽͘ n̴̢̙͊͌͊ö̴̡͎̘́̓t̸̡̫̻̾͋͝.̸̝͖̿̈́͜͠ B̸͇̠̒͠e̵͖̙̼͋̓̕c̸̢͙͚͌͠͠a̵͔̝̫͛̕u̸͚̦̻͑̾s̸̢͎͎̈́̐̒e̸̘͚̪̔͊͑ ḯ̵̟̠̦̾f̸̫̪̼̈́͆ h̴̪͐͘͜͜͝e̴̟̞͊̒͛ w̴̡͍̪̽͊̚a̸̙͔̘͛̿͋s̸͍͇̒̾͘͜,̴̦̟͖͌̓ h̸̙͔͔͒̈́͒e̵̡͚̟͛̈́̓ w̸̢͚̦͐̽o̴̺͔͒̽͜u̸̘͍͓͋̕͠l̸͔̞͓̈́̐̒d̴̢̡̔͋̐͜ s̵͖̞̾̾͝ǘ̴̪̝͇̈́r̴͙͖̻̐e̴͔͉͚͛͐̒l̵͍̠̠̓̚y̴̠̘͍͐̾̕ l̸̘̙͖̓̾̚o̸͇͎͓͝͝͠n̸̪̟͋͌͋g̸͚̘̻̾͛͝ f̴̡͓̼͑͆̚o̴̺͎͙͠r̴̡̙̦͌̈́͒ d̴̺͉̠͆͊̈́ë̸̪̠͔́͆̐a̵̞͙͐͌͝ẗ̸͚͙͚́͛͠h̸̺͎̻̓͠͠.

Jon’s mind is completely frozen, and the potent agony he feels radiating through Martin seeps into him, numbing his body as he struggles to comprehend what’s being said. Martin’s hand tightens around Jon’s neck to the point of shutting his windpipe, and Jon has no choice but to watch as _they_ start coming out.

Tiny black spiders begin to pour out of Martin through his mouth, nose, and wounds. They start slowly, with only a few trickling out a time, but soon they all start to spill and topple around each other, as though Martin’s body is bleeding them out.

The ones behind his eyes take a while to escape. They’re a touch bigger than the others, being well fed by Martin’s thoughts, and they have to push beyond his tear ducts and roll his eyes back in order to free themselves.

Some of them scurry up Martin’s arm and begin crawling over Jon’s skin, covering him and making him writhe with terror and disgust.

Jon can feel the world start to fade away as his lungs scream for oxygen and his mind screams for peace, and in that moment, Martin’s hand abruptly lets him go.

Jon falls to his knees and coughs uncontrollably as the spiders retreat back into Martin’s body.

*********

The hooks in our fingers go slack as the one attached to our arm pulls it backwards.

The Archivist falls. We continue smiling.

Our mind is spinning, and new thoughts start outpacing our ability to trap and drink them. We don’t want to be in here. We don’t want to be awake. We don’t want to feel like this anymore!

No. That’s not right.

We want to serve the Web, we want to change the world, and we want to save Jon.

But we know we cannot truly save him. We can save what tiny shred of humanity he has left, but we cannot save his life.

And that’s okay.

He coughs and sputters and curses under his breath. He doesn’t look at us. He doesn’t _want_ to look at us. Our mere existence is hurting him deeply, and he can barely stand it. How lovely.

But, after a few moments, he meets our gaze. He’s clearly still frightened, but we can sense the anger bubbling under his expression. We may have even flinched were it not for the hooks and chains keeping us in place.

“Why?” he growls. “Why are you doing this?” He speaks loudly while looking around the room. He’s not talking to us; not really. He refuses to acknowledge our presence any longer, for doing so has only caused him heartache and fear. No, he’s talking to someone else, be it Annabelle or some monster he’s made up to rationalize our current behaviour.

Even though he’s not speaking to us, we answer him.

W̔͐̕e͒̕ d̓͛͠i̓͝͠d̒̔̚ t̔̈́h͛͆͘i̓̐s̈́͐ f̓͘͝o͑̔r̽͘͠ y͌͝o̓̓̓u̓,̽̿ J̐̈́o͐̿͌n͋̾̐.̿̈́

W͊͑͊e̿͊͠ ẅ́͠a̐͆̚n͋̓̚ẗ́͑͝ t̐o͋̒̐ s͒̓̚a̾̚͝v̐̓͝e̓͛ t̿̕͝h͐̽͛ë́̓̓ w͋̈́̚o͘͝r͊͛͝l̿͘d̔̾͐,͛͋̚ J̓̔̈́o̔̓n̓̿͘.̽̒͌

W͌͑͘e̿͊ d͊͋̕i͐͐̿d͛͠͝n͊͛͘'͑͠t͆̒ w͊̕ä́̚n̽͝t̾͑͝ y̐̓͒o͐͑͝u͒͋̈́ t͑͑͌o̐͛͋ b͛̈́͝e̔̕͝c̚͠o͋͑̕m̾ë́̈́͘ t͌̈́͝h̓̐ë́̐̽ p͌̽͘ǘ͘p͛̿͌i̒͌͆l̾͆͘,͊̈́͝ J̽͘ö́͝n̐͋̕.̽͑͑

W̔̓̚e͛͑̕ s͊͘a͒v͛͛͝e̓͒͝d̓͊ y̾͑͘o͑͝͝u̐̕ J̿͒͑o̒̿͛n̿̿͝.͋͛

He looks back at us, and we revel in his repulsion at the sound of our voices. He narrows his eyes, and oh the _hatred_ that he delivers in his gaze is intoxicating.

But hatred still isn’t despair. It isn’t insanity.

We lean down to his level and look into his pretty eyes. We focus on our tongue and try to speak in unified clarity.

“Weͤ dͩoͦn'́ᴛⷮ waͣnᴛⷮ yoͦuͧ ᴛⷮoͦ вeͤ aͣ mͫoͦns͛ᴛⷮeͤrͬ,̓ Joͦn. Weͤ dͩiͥdͩ ᴛⷮhͪiͥs͛ s͛oͦ yoͦuͧ woͦn'́ᴛⷮ hͪaͣvͮeͤ ᴛⷮoͦ ᴛⷮaͣᴋeͤ Joͦnaͣhͪ'́s͛ рlaͣcͨeͤ. ᴛⷮhͪeͤ Weͤb iͥs͛ goͦiͥng ᴛⷮoͦ s͛aͣvͮeͤ eͤvͮeͤrͬyoͦneͤ,̓ s͛oͦ yoͦuͧ dͩoͦn'́ᴛⷮ hͪaͣvͮeͤ ᴛⷮoͦ giͥvͮeͤ iͥn ᴛⷮoͦ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ Eͤyeͤ.”

Jon looks shaken, and stares at us as shame begins to fill his mind. _Wonderful,_ we think. _Now he sees us as ‘Martin.’_

We are Martin, of course, but the nuance of that had been lost on Jon the minute he saw something he didn’t want to see.

Our hand moves forward once again to gently touch Jon’s face. He doesn’t even flinch away from the contact. _Now,_ we think. _Push him over the edge._

“Weͤ dͩiͥdͩ ᴛⷮhͪiͥs͛ beͤcͨaͣuͧs͛eͤ weͤ loͦvͮeͤ yoͦuͧ.”

And it’s true. It’s deliciously honest in a way that The Archivist may never be able to comprehend. And it’s this piece of knowledge that will break him. He did this to us, even if he didn’t mean to, and knowing that his arrogance is what pushed us into the arms of Annabelle Cane will drive him mad.

He looks at us, and we can see the despair creep into his eyes in the form of glassy tears. We wait for him to sob and lose himself to the guilt and the pain and the sorrow and the repulsion he feels when he looks at us.

He slowly closes his eyes and leans into our hand. He places his own hand on top of ours and breathes deeply. “I’m sorry, Martin,” he speaks barely above a whisper.

We—

This is—this is not what we expected.

We want to reply, but find ourselves ensnaring every sentence before it touches our lips. Jon leans forward, and although he hesitates, he wraps us in a gentle embrace and begins tracing our back with his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over and over again as if reciting a mantra in meditation.

It drives us mad.

We’re spinning webs around our thoughts with dizzying speed as the longing to return his embrace overwhelms our senses. We want to touch him; to dig our nails into him so he knows we can hear him. To press our lips against his so he can feel how much we love him.

But the hooks and strings and chains that Jon cannot feel don’t allow us to move.

That’s probably for the best. We don’t want to fill his mouth and lungs with cobwebs.

But still, we spill out once more. We crawl across his skin and wait for him to release our body as he recoils in repulsion.

He doesn’t.

He sits there with us as we escape through our mouth and eyes and cover his skin with small black arachnids. He doesn’t even flinch as we crawl across his face and around his lips and eyelids. We wait for him to run, and he never does.

 _Maybe he still loves us,_ we think. _Maybe he can save us._

That thought is captured quickly and wrapped in sharp strands of silver. It’s sucked dry with great haste, then withers into nothing.

It’s forgotten instantly.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are appreciated.


End file.
